Surface Deep
by Lady Dementia
Summary: Thundercracker beards the Constructicons in their lair, Starscream lies in danger of becoming a Constructicon trophy, and Skywarp reluctantly acknowledges what the Constructicons have done. The winning side certainly has its peculiarities.
1. Chapter 1

Thundercracker beards the Constructicons in their lair, Starscream lies in danger of becoming a Constructicon trophy, and Skywarp reluctantly acknowledges what the Constructicons have done. The winning side certainly has its peculiarities.

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_Disclaimer: Whaddya know, I still don't own the Transformers or make any money off them. (Edit 03/25/08: I noticed a major spelling error for the Aerialbots, which I had spelled Arielbots. I had to change it. Otherwise I had this mental image of the Little Mermaid as an Autobot, and that's just not right.)_

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**Surface Deep**

By Lady Dementia

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_Part One_

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The humans didn't mention these kinds of battles; it made bad press for the losers, which they were. The Autobots used it in their propaganda; failure seemed to spur them onward.

The Decepticons accepted it as their due. Reveling in winning a battle seemed like overkill, and while they thrived on that as well, the benefits of winning spoke for themselves. The Autobots retreated to lick their wounds in shame and refire their wills, but the Decepticons held singed armor out to each other and bragged about how it happened. The bigger the battle, the more tales they could spin out into exaggerated stories about their own accomplishments in the heat of it. Winning just meant they could be noisier about it since Megatron was in a good mood afterward. He'd occasionally been known to join in on the laughter at the losers' expense.

Since coming to Earth, there hadn't been many of the bragging sessions. The wounded were fixed as quickly as possible and quietly went about their duties, trying to dodge the silver tyrant's attention in a base far too small for such a challenge. When they won, on the other wing, Megatron's mood seemed to infuse the air underwater, as unavoidable as his fists on a bad day. He'd even been heard to say something almost complimentary to Motormaster, although both would deny it vehemently if queried later. The result was a charged atmosphere in the base. The Decepticons didn't hold a celebration for winning the battle as Autobots might have. They only turned up the volume on their pride and lingered in small groups during their duties, loudly contesting who had done what to whom and exactly when--and did they remember way back on Cybertron when..?

It was less of a party than something in the back of their minds saying, "Finally, back to normal." The Decepticons were winning the war. Things were right in the universe—and especially on Earth—again.

The duty roster had correspondingly relaxed with the fool's-gold ambiance in the base. Nobody slacked off, exactly, but nobody hurried to get on with things when Motormaster started in on how he'd gotten Optimus Prime into the final fenderbender that had given them the day. Whatever the piece of technology was that the Decepticon gestalt leader had pried out of the Autobot's leader's frantic hands, it had actually drawn a look that oddly resembled a gleeful smile out of Soundwave—well, as close to smile as could be had on a robot with a face mask. That was sufficiently bizarre that the other Decepticons, not being in Megatron's close confidences, were deathly curious and gathered around the only one who'd gotten a close look at the thing they'd fought and won for.

Thundercracker passed them by somewhat glumly. He also wanted to know what the thing was—it seemed awful small for all the fuss the Autobots had put up for it—but when Megatron sent one on an errand, one did not mistake the benevolent mood of the tyrant as an opportunity to slack off, even for a few minutes. Normally, being sent to pester Starscream in the medical bay after combat presented a prime opening to annoy classified details out of him, but not today. Today, he had serious injuries to recover from. Whatever it was that they'd fought for had been important enough to cause the Air Commander to throw himself into battle with the abandon he usually directed toward attempting to take over Megatron's position. That had, surprisingly, pleased Megatron to no end. Even the other Decepticons had been impressed, if only against their wills.

One of the battle details being avidly dissected in the base's halls was Starscream's spectacular and potentially fatal battle with three of the Aerialbots and the pink-faced Autobot, what's-his-name, Trademark or Trace or something. The red jet had successfully prevented the Aerialbots from combining to their stronger gestalt-mode, but the part that had the Decepticons talking was when the Air Commander had landed on and tangled with the Corvette. Swindle had immediately started a betting pool on which Autobots would die after the battle, and that Autobot—Tracks? Yeah, that was his name--had a lot of credits riding on him.

That, too, felt normal. It seemed like none of the Autobots that had come to Earth had died at their hands yet, and that was strange. Except for the few officers that persistently stayed alive, knowing names of the Autobots he faced from battle to battle in this war felt very odd. It made it harder for Thundercracker to TRY and kill them, as if they were real Cybertronians instead of faceless enemies…

Thundercracker paused and shook his head. He was overthinking this. Megatron had sent him down to the medical bay for a reason, and that reason had probably slaughtered an Autobot today. Just another Autobot. Admittedly, he'd done it in a brutal, messy way, but that was no excuse for Thundercracker to care either way about who that Autobot had been.

Unless Tracks died, of course. He personally had a cube and a half of high-grade energon ready to wager in Swindle's betting pool as soon as he decided which way he'd bet. He had his doubts about whether the Autobot would die. After all, Starscream himself had taken so much damage during the fight that two of the Constructions had carried him back to the base. Even allowing for taking on three Aerialbots previously, an Autobot who could deal out that degree of damage to the Air Commander wouldn't go down easily.

A sly grin tried to cross Thundercracker's face as he entered the medical bay, but he squashed it before the six robots in the vast bay could notice. He wasn't the sneaky jet of his wing, an image that made him perfect for a job like this. But if he looked like he was up to something besides the obvious, Hook could pick up on it and ruin the take. Hook was demonically good at picking up little details like that. Luckily for Thundercracker, both he and Scrapper were working on the far side of the bay, and Long Haul, as per usual, was preoccupied in griping as he lifted Starscream to the repair table.

"…could repair a fused micronbolt if they'd give me half a chance, but no, I'm the one who has to haul your reject carcass around like it's welded to my arms. Do I look like a scrap collector? Think I do this for fun? I'd drop you in a nanosecond if it wouldn't mean I'd have to pick your pieces up again, and would you LOOK at the scrapes you're leaving on my paint job?" Despite his grumbling, Long Haul maneuvered the Air Commander's wings into place with an ease that spoke of long experience. He barely jostled the nearly-detached metal. A faint buzz made Thundercracker cock his head as he came up behind the dump truck Decepticon, but the high-pitched, metallic sound made Long Haul shake his head. "Wings are last. Leave this to the professionals. Lacking any of those…Bonecrusher?"

"Outta my way." Thundercracker sidestepped automatically, something one had to learn quickly when in the path of Bonecrusher. The heavy Constructicon had a tendency to start brawls for little reason, and here in the realm of his gestalt, a wise jet heeded what warnings were given. The fact that Bonecrusher was holding Starscream's lower right leg only emphasized that fact, even if he himself hadn't taken it off. Pissing off the best repair team in the base was a Bad Idea. If such an unwise thing was done, there was no guarantee one's leg would be reattached once it was removed.

Bonecrusher stopped beside Long Haul and clunked the separated limb down on the table. "Whatta slaggin' pile of chewed-up parts. It looks like junk metal Scavenger dragged in. You sure there's an Air Commander in this?" Bonecrusher's hands, familiar as they were with being fists driven into other's faces, were unexpectedly gentle as he probed into the mess that had been Starscream's cockpit. Another buzz whined through the air, and the two Constructicons chuckled, albeit somewhat cruelly. Thundercracker, peering over their shoulders, finally figured out what the buzzing noise was. Starscream saw him looking down, and the buzz gained strength. And irritation. "Shut up," Bonecrusher ordered.

The downed jet's remained optic blazed with anger at the off-handed order, but Long Haul pinned him down when his hands would have risen toward Bonecrusher's insolent face. "Easy, easy," the dump truck soothed. "You're straining your vocalizer. It won't repair right if you keep using it, so shut it down."

The warrior Constructicon shrugged with guileless innocence. "That's what I SAID, isn't it?" Typical of Bonecrusher, Thundercracker noted, to have stated a repair order in the most offensive and unexplained way possible. Long Haul smoothed laughter into a cough at the act but kept Starscream's arms down until the Air Commander sullenly surrendered. The buzz cut off with a crackle of damaged electronics.

"What do you want?" Long Haul asked after releasing the jet's hands and turning to fix an inquiring optic visor on Thundercracker. He swept the blue jet with a look and focused on the only flaw visible. "Don't tell me you're here for that chip on your shoulder. We don't do paint jobs."

"I'll adjust the attitude, if you'd like," Bonecrusher said sweetly without looking up from his careful exploration of the damaged jet before him.

Thundercracker sneered at his back. "I like the chip on my shoulder, thank you very much. It adds character." Especially since it gave him a great excuse to get Skywarp alone in his quarters later, but they didn't need to know that. Speaking of attitude, however…Matching his sweetness to Bonecrushers', the jet turned limpid optics on Long Haul. "I'm so tired, I thought I'd stop in and ask you for a ride back to the bridge. I mean, since you're such good transport…"

"You--!"

"Stuff it," Bonecrusher interrupted before Long Haul could erupt in a rant. He'd normally side with his gestalt-mate, but they'd just gotten back from battle. The recent fight made him mellow enough to recognize a taunt when it wasn't directed at him. "He's here because Megatron sent him down. Status report, right? Go ask Scrapper and leave us to our work."

The jet eyed Long Haul with interest; the dump truck appeared ready to explode, and he was sure Bonecrusher was going to get an audio-full for his interference when he was out of listening range. "Megatron wants to know when Starscream's going to be back on his feet, too."

Bonecrusher freed a hand to wave threateningly under Thundercracker's nose. "I SAID, go ask Scrapper. I'll know in a minute what we're gonna have to do on him. It looks like he's in for an extensive rebuild. Part of it's just going t' be cosmetic, though." The Air Commander had landed hard on Autobot and the ground, and his exterior showed it. The mangled wings were the worst, but his throat had taken a blast and his right leg had twisted mid-thigh and lost the lower half entirely. His cockpit had definitely seen better days. Bonecrusher was wrist-deep in it at the moment, and Thundercracker hovered behind him, curious both to what he'd find and if Long Haul would really explode as he seemed about to.

Jet and dump truck shared a glare when Thundercracker showed no sign of moving on, but they were once again interrupted by Bonecrusher. "Wouldja look at that?" Something snapped in Starscream's chest as the bulldozer withdrew one hand holding an assortment of odd items. The Air Commander grimaced but stayed still and silent, presumably relieved to have the things out of him one way or another. "What on Cybertron are these?" Long Haul and Thundercracker peered at them, as baffled as Bonecrusher by the fuzzy cubes with dots, tins labeled 'Turtlewax,' and a weird statuette of a human wearing robes.

Scrapper had just walked around the other side of the repair table to look Starscream over critically. He glanced at Bonecrusher's handful of miscellanea and burst out laughing. "Starscream took some mementos for his trouble, it seems!" he said around his mirth. "Judging from how he slammed Tracks down the first time, I'd say that's the contents of the Autobot's glove compartment!"

The blue jet reached out and gingerly lifted the tiny, fuzzy cubes by the string joining them. "I always knew Autobots were crazy, but this is pushing it." And what could the plastic figurine be? Why would an Autobot drive around with a human statuette in him?

"Well, this is piece of a dashboard…" Bonecrusher poked at the bottom of the statue. "It must be a car thing. I've seen this or something similar in automobiles on human building sites." He shrugged eloquently. "Autobots and their 'going native' fetishes."

Long Haul and Thundercracker snickered, but Scrapper took the figurine. "Scavenger will want this. You," he pointed finger at Thundercracker, "tell Megatron this one will be operational in a day."

The jet looked at the finger in his face and blinked. "I need the full status report."

"I could have just sent it through the computer to the bridge." Inefficiency annoyed Scrapper, but he turned away to return to the computer and download all the after-battle repair reports to a chip for Thundercracker. A smart Decepticon did not tell his commander that he was being inefficient.

"But then I wouldn't have been able to see my dear wingleader." Thundercracker oozed concern. Scrapper scoffed over his shoulder, and Bonecrusher openly laughed. Even Long Haul cracked a smile before snatching the 'Turtlewax' containers out of his gestalt-mate's hand and stomping off in Mixmaster's direction. The chemist would surely enjoy having a new substance to tinker with. The expression on Starscream's face was priceless, a combination of smugness for having accidentally swiped an Autobot's possessions in the course of attempting to rip out his spark and stark disbelief at his wingmate's concern. The blue jet hammed it up. "How is my dear wingleader?"

If looks could kill, his 'dear' wingleader would have just murdered his mouthy subordinate. Bonecrusher continued to run careful hands over the damage but otherwise ignored his temperamental patient. "Megatron's gonna have to wait a bit longer than Scrapper thought. We're going t' need to pull his sensor net and rewire everything through a new support structure."

"What about his throat?" Hook called from across the medical bay.

"Internal systems will handle most of it, but we might as well take most of his upper torso armor completely off and rebuild over the new struts." Bonecrusher wormed a finger underneath a deep groove and tapped from the inside; the metal at the deepest part of the furrow warped on impact. Starscream glowered, but the Constructicon grinned. "You could do a weld over some of the weakest points, but it'll be faulty protection and probably look hideous. I'm gonna assume Megatron doesn't want his Air Commander held together with spackle and new paint?" He gave the blue jet a hopeful look. Bonecrusher liked destroying things, and while the other Constructicons were better at building stuff, he was often the best at seeing the faulty areas that couldn't be fixed and needed to be demolished in order to rebuild a more perfect whole. Right now, Starscream was a giant imperfection. Entire sections of his armor needed to be hammered out or replaced, and his right leg was a disaster. Bonecrusher's fingers itched to start pulling him apart.

Thundercracker could see the urge in the Constructicon's twitching hands, and he smirked down at his wingleader. Starscream watched them both warily. It was a strange conversation to be having in his presence without the red jet's screechy voice yelling at them. His wingmate thought it was a rather pleasant change. "Yeah, Megatron's orders are to get him fully functional. Do whatever you need to and don't worry about time, I guess." Unlike the treacherous Air Commander's usual reason for being in the medical bay, today's injury had him firmly in Megatron's favor. Hence the Constructicons' careful treatment and Starscream's uncharacteristic calm. Aggravating a Decepticon officer injured in the line of duty was another Bad Idea guaranteed to get the annoyer some damage of his very own.

"Fine. Get over here and give me an estimate of the damages for the report, then." Scrapper beckoned to Bonecrusher. "Long Haul, go tell Scavenger he has to pull enough scrap iron out of his collection to give Mixmaster something to manufacture replacement armor out of. We can recycle most of the armor plates, but I want something to reinforce the worst buckle-points since we're doing a full refit. Take this thing to him while you're at it." He tossed the tiny plastic figurine in Long Haul's direction and turned back to Hook. "What upgrades can we do on his systems while we've got him open?"

Constructicons scattered across the medical bay, complaining and discussing and generally leaving the two jets alone. Thundercracker smothered a wily smile. Wonderful. He looked down at Starscream and moved close enough that it would take Soundwave to overhear any conversation between them. "So, my dear wingleader…"

The damaged Air Commander's uncracked optic cut sharply away from watching Scrapper to studying Thundercracker. That tone of voice, while rare in the blue jet, was not one he associated with good things. Starscream swore he'd learned it from his more devious wingmate, and Skywarp mischief was of the dangerous variety. Keeping Skywarp from pranking--an all-encompassing term including, at the very least, bombing, whitewashing, or knocking unconscious--other Decepticons amused him when he was able to stop the loony Seeker, but seeing a scheme in the making between his wingmates when he couldn't get up off the table was NOT funny. Nobody ever suspected the laconic Thundercracker.

The other Decepticons had no idea what they were in for.

"Don't give me that look," Thundercracker chided him. "I won't let him blow up the base."

Oh, yes, like he believed that. Starscream drummed his fingers impatiently at his sides. Dried mechfluid flaked off the joints.

The blue jet threw his hands up defensively. "Or fill it with insulation foam."

Better. But he still wasn't convinced his wingmates weren't about to wreak havoc while he was convalescing. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to deal with an angry Soundwave after another one of Skywarp's attempts at catching unwary Casseticons with bear traps. Having a sneaky, underhanded idiot in his wing outweighed the disadvantages by a marginal amount, but he was in no mood to argue the matter with Megatron yet again. He drummed his fingers once more, unable to voice his doubts vocally.

"Relax," Thundercracker said in a low tone, leaning in to keep his words private. "I just want some…information. Swindle's taking bets on whether that Autobot you took out is dead slag or not. I want to know which way I should bet."

Well, that was different. He could see the angle immediately; everyone would know if Skywarp came to talk with him and placed a wager one way or another. But Thundercracker had been sent down by Megatron, and the blue jet wasn't known for his plots. A small amount of cunning could send the odds in their favor and win them quite a lot of the pot. Money and high-grade energon were nothing to pass on, especially since he'd get a cut just by telling what he already knew. Starscream relaxed a bit and inclined his head to indicate his interest.

"Last I heard, the odds are weighted toward Tracks dying. What do you think?" Starscream frowned and shook his head slightly, trying not to pull on damaged cables in his neck. "No?" One hand lifted to the center of his chest, pressing lightly against the shattered cockpit glass. Thundercracker sighed and shook his head at the action. "Missed his spark, huh? Too bad. Did you at least damage his main fuel pump?" Starscream pinched his fingers together, indicating that he'd inflicted some injury but not a lot. Not enough, anyway. "Frag. The way you tore into him, I thought you'd at least gotten something vital." It had obviously looked more impressive than it actually was. The Autobot medics were too good to assume that a near-fatal injury would become fatal given a chance at repair. "At least you took him out for a while. They didn't look happy when we took off."

The Air Commander looked justifiably smug. Sometimes his cowardice made it hard for others to remember exactly how he'd achieved his rank in the Decepticons, but today would certainly jog their memories. He didn't fight losing battles or a fusion cannon in his face, but pitch him against a foe in the air or from a stronger position, and it served as a reminder for why Autobots feared him.

The mechfluid dried on his hands wasn't his own.

Thundercracker rested a hip against the repair table. "How much do you want to throw into the pool?" He counted as his wingleader's fingers tapped. "Are you sure?" The taps repeated along with a definitive hand gesture at his side out of sight of the nearest Constructicon. "Twelve cubes? You must be REAL sure he'll pull through," the blue jet murmured. Starscream nodded slightly. "It'll be difficult getting that many cubes into the bets without clueing anyone else in. Skywarp will have to bet a hefty amount on him dying to convince everyone. He'll want a bigger cut from us when we win." Warning delivered, Thundercracker straightened as Scrapper approached. "Finished?"

"Get out of here before I repaint you to look like your 'dear' wingleader," Scrapper said back, handing over the status report for Megatron. "You've wasted enough of my time today."

"It'd be quicker if Long Haul would give me a ride…"

"Get him out of here before I run him over!"

Thundercracker waved in the dump truck's direction and strode toward the door before the threat became reality. He'd deliver the report to Megatron along with a run-down of how mangled Starscream looked, which had been the real reason for sending him down here in the first place. His next stop would then be Skywarp's duty station, where's he'd publicly cajole his seemingly reluctant wingmate into agreeing to touch up his paint job later in his quarters. Nobody would be suspicious of that. It would, of course, be the perfect opportunity to hand over the details for the gambling scam they'd put into place shortly. It would be a waiting game after that for the results of the betting pool, but he had confidence in Starscream's judgment on this. Having his hands--and arms--in the Autobot's chest cavity earlier in the day gave the Air Commander an excellent opinion on whose was the winning side.

Which probably explained why he was a Decepticon.

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End Part One

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	2. Worthy of Trust

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Part Two

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When Mixmaster threw the final result to the side, bored, Scavenger picked it up. He always picked up the things others threw away. Sometimes it was habit, most of the time it was junk, but there were other times. The other times were the reason he kept a cargo hold full of scraps and pieces underneath the medical bay.

Scavenger had a skill. A small one, perhaps, when compared to those with greater fighting abilities, like Bonecrusher, or a talent at surgery like Hook had. But small abilities supported the larger ones. Mixmaster needed the scrap iron he found to concoct alloy experiments. Without such testing, the Decepticon structures and weaponry would never advance. Or they would crumble and break, bad omens at best and a waste of valuable resources at worst. Scrapper couldn't design without Mixmaster's assurance that the prime materials available would be used. Even Hook needed Scavenger when the precision measurements he called for had to be fabricated or replaced with whatever could be substituted—and Scavenger always had something on hand. They each had skills that supported each other. That was what made their gestalt work.

Scavenger, however, doubted his own worth. Somehow, gathering junk just didn't stand up against the physical difference demolition, creation, or even hauling made on a build site. No matter how much reassurance the other Constructicons gave him while merged into Devastator, still Scavenger doubted. Perhaps his self-doubt counteracted Hook's arrogance as the opposite side of the personality scale. More likely, he was only a junker. Sure, he was useful. A metal detector could do his job.

So, depressed, he picked up Mixmaster's discarded tin containers and turned them over in his hands, contemplating another addition to his rubbish collection. He passed the minute items under his shovel, analyzing what his sensors picked up: a thick petroleum distillate. A viscous liquid made of lubricating oils with polishing agents Mixmaster had evidentially tinkered with, as Scavenger picked up human so-called 'nanotechnology' suspended among real, Cybertronian technology on the molecular level. Car wax, he realized. The Autobot had been carrying around polishing fluid in his glove compartment. How vain.

It seemed like a useless item at first glance, even for someone with his collection criteria, and he thought that he could at least dispose of it for Mixmaster. On the way to the incinerator, however, he passed by the only patient left in the medical bay after yesterday's battle with the Autobots.

He stopped.

He always picked things up that others threw away, because he could see the value others couldn't. Scavenger was both blessed and cursed with an incredibly wide perspective, allowing him to see that one person's trash was another's treasure, sometimes even before the need occurred. Having such a wide perspective inspired uncertainty about what exactly his own perspective was, and this undermined much of the excavator's confidence. It made him unable to see how his own ability fueled his gestalt-mates'. It made him overcompensate for a perceived weakness in the team.

But he had strength, when it came to junk. He didn't always know how. He didn't always know why, or who, or when. He just knew, innately, underneath all the programming and experience, deep down in his spark. He KNEW. Where Bonecrusher could see an defects that had to be destroyed and Hook could fix them to perfection, Scavenger looked at junk and saw the possibilities outside their limited viewpoints.

He looked at Starscream, newly repaired and freshly painted, and his optic band brightened. The jet reclined offline on the table, as perfectly formed and functional as the day he'd been assembled. Hook and Scrapper had done masterful work, as per usual. Yet Scavenger couldn't help but step toward him as if drawn by a magnet. Something remained unfinished. Something waited to be done, like a scrap-work puzzle in his cargo hold, like digging for something in the junk that he knew Mixmaster needed although he hadn't known to request it. It was THERE. He KNEW it. That was what Scavenger DID. He found the holes. He found things to fill them.

There remained untapped potential, dormant and waiting in the repaired jet. It hadn't been brought out, not yet. Starscream wasn't complete.

But he had what would complete him.

Scavenger really had no idea how closely his gestalt watched him. He knew it logically but somehow overlooked his place in the whole. They all kept together, watching each other's backs, but he had an odd tendency to leave himself out of the group in his own mind. Hence his shock when someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. "What're you doing?" Bonecrusher asked, suspicion in his voice. "You've been standing there staring at him, and it's starting to get to me. Cut it out."

"Unless you are planning on how to best use his deconstructed body once Megatron tires of his treachery," Hook said dryly from his other side. "In which case, by all means continue your obsessive vigil but factor in that I lay claim to his wings."

"Yeah?" Bonecrusher made a face from the excavator's other side. "You would."

Hook smiled at his more destructive gestalt-mate, at ease with the surliness directed at him. Some things could only be understood when one shared a link of more than mind or spark. "You are particularly unappealing when you try to provoke me," he said mildly, and Scavenger was startled into a laugh. "Do not worry. I will not spoil them. They are the only part of that," he waved elegantly toward Starscream's prone form, "egocentric creature worth preserving, and I thought we might weld them over Scrapper's design bench."

Said bench lay at the far end of the medical bay behind a series of half-completed projects that created a private space they all used to get away from prying optics. The bulldozer had often complained the projects needed to be shoved over and rearranged to maximize the space available, but in reality they all knew it was the ugliness that grated on him. Makeshift areas, although effective, never had the intention real, planned spaces had. The rest of them could ignore it, but it was part of what Bonecrusher was that every time he saw the space, all he could see were the flaws that marred it. He continually harassed Scrapper about crafting a better workspace. However, hanging Starscream's red-and-silver wings above the workbench would change the space around them, making it a display area. There would be focus. Concrete purpose.

The warrior Constructicon gazed off into space for a moment, thinking it over. "Huh."

Scavenger shifted between them, and Hook turned his attention back to his edgy gestalt-mate. "Keep this in mind for whatever you are planning," he ordered. "The wings are mine." He didn't seriously think that Scavenger was considering dissembling Starscream, but all his teammates required different methods of handling. This one needed to be prodded a bit without appearing to pry.

Plus, it was true. He did want Starscream's wings. All things considered, they were just…pretty.

"Hey, Scrounge isn't going to be the one with first dibs on the body!" Offended, Long Haul came up on Bonecrusher's far side and leaned a familiar shoulder-tire against the bulldozer's blockier arm. "You KNOW Megatron will send me out to pick up his bits and pieces after he finally blows him away."

"My wish still stands."

"Oh? What're you offering ME? Scavenger's such a nice guy he'd give 'em to you, no problem. Me? Nuh-uh." It would probably take another component of Devastator to see the teasing expression in Long Haul's visor and face mask; Bonecrusher grinned appreciatively and pushed a playful elbow into the dump truck's side. "C'mon, Hook. Negotiate with the hired help." From behind them, Mixmaster giggled at Long Haul's arch tone, a spot-on imitation of Hook at his most insufferable. Hook immediately bristled.

Across the bay, Scrapper finished cleaning off the rim of a flat mold Mixmaster had used to cast armor and watched his gestalt bicker back and forth. They were in fine form today as they argued and laughed at each other. Yesterday had been slightly more stressful as they'd returned to base and dealt with the wounded who'd limped in, whining and moaning about their injuries when they felt the Constructicons weren't repairing them fast enough. The mood had been one of accomplishment, nonetheless, as even the wounded swapped congratulations for shots fired and Autobots downed. Yesterday had been good for moral and his team.

Still, today had been different. Today had been dedicated to rebuilding Starscream from the inside out. They'd been involved in one repair job, working together on one person, not a machine for one of Megatron's plots. They hadn't had a separate part to work on, isolated in their own piece of a larger design until the final fitting of their contributions. Instead, they'd interacted and exchanged ideas and work, argued designs, experimented with metals and molds and melting points. Maybe to an outsider that seemed a subtle difference, but it meant everything to a gestalt. Perhaps the battle they'd won had something to do with it, but Scrapper couldn't think of a military victory that led to Hook looking down his nose at his fellow Constructicons and barely holding onto the aloof expression as they dissolved into laughter at whatever he'd just said.

Part of it, of course, had to do with the excavator standing nervously in the middle of the ongoing squabble over who got Starscream's wings. While the Air Commander was most assuredly out cold while his systems rebooted over and over again to test new wiring and align his sensor arrays, it usually wasn't too bright to discuss divvying up a commanding officer's parts while standing right next to him. They were all well aware of that, but Scavenger had been standing in the middle of the room staring fixedly at Starscream. That was odd, odd enough that the other Constructicons had homed in on his oddity and gathered around him like big, green, friendly distractions. Not that any of them would admit to why they'd done it. Concern for a teammate was not a very Decepticon trait unless masked as, say, an argument about parts. That was acceptable.

As if his gestalt ever really fit the stereotype, anyway.

Scrapper put aside the mold and flung the cloth he'd used to clean it toward Mixmaster's head as the cement mixer pretended to examine Long Haul for potential use. "Alright, break it up. He wouldn't fit in your drum, and Primus knows what we'd make of him if you could. Am I the only one around here who can clean up this mess? These projects won't finish themselves, and I am NOT going to explain to Megatron why my build team is standing around gossiping like civilians when there's work to do."

"Union break's over," Mixmaster said wryly, flicking the rag off the shoulder it had landed on. He handed it to Scavenger absently, and the excavator pulled it between his hands without thinking. His optics brightened as he looked at its stretched length, but the other Constructicons were watching their crazy chemist poke at Long Haul's arm. "You malign my talent, Scrapper. I could manage."

Hook surveyed the disgruntled dump truck from head to foot. "He'd make a nice garbage can."

"A real-really big one."

"You're ASKING for an I-beam upside the head," Long Haul growled, and Mixmaster cackled like a hen laying a square egg. That set the other three Constructicons off, and the dump trump stomped away in the huff.

Scavenger vaguely registered the group's attention wandering into a discussion about a proposed addition to the base, but his optics locked on the cloth he held. Sharpened interest turned upon it and occupied his mind with a sudden plan. Long synthetic fibers made of plastics and silicone threads were woven loosely into a cloth that seemed perfect for his intentions. If he remembered correctly, Hook kept a supply of clean, thicker pads made with a metallic mesh in place of the silicon content of this rag; the metallic fibers would reduce static build-up, which would be important for the next stage of his plan. Blind to his gestalt-mate's inquiring gazes, he strode forward and stood over Starscream's unconscious form.

For a moment, Scrapper almost feared that they'd misjudged. Before any of them could start toward the slightly unstable Decepticon and his potential victim, Scavenger looked toward the rest of them with an uncertain expression. Looking for approval as he always did. Looking for reassurance that he was doing what they wanted. Looking for their confidence to tell him that he still belonged among them.

That they trusted him to find something more in what they'd already finished with.

"Do you require assistance?" Hook asked quietly, painstakingly neutral.

Scavenger shook his head quickly and looked down, appearing relieved that none of them had demanded an explanation or involvement. Scrapper and Hook exchanged glances, then looked to Long Haul and Bonecrusher. They shrugged back. Since he didn't seem about to murderer the Air Commander, the five Constructicons agreed without a word spoken to go about their business and--at least for a short while--leave their unconfident gestalt-mate alone. Until they understood what exactly he was doing, it seemed the wisest course. If nothing else, the next time they merged into Devastator it would all become clear. Harmless mysteries could be allowed.

Left to his own devices, the tension slowly seeped from the excavator's shoulders. He hated to be watched; it felt like doubt piling on his back. But…heh. They really did know how to handle him.

Scavenger opened the tin Mixmaster had thrown away and looked at it critically. There remained more aspects to be explored than this one; once used, items regarded as 'junk' by others tended to be pushed to the side. It would require more than polish to restore scrap to sublime. He lifted his head and measured the angle of lighting with a glance while previous dimensions involving height, texture contrast, and positioning aligned themselves in his processor. Muttering a litany of the elements to himself subvocally, an idle habit from eons of scrap analysis, he scooped a tiny amount of the wax out with the cloth. Not too much since this was now a Mixmaster-enhanced formula, but not too little, either. Enough to spread evenly over a wide area without thinning irregularly at the edges. Perhaps he should do two coats before buffing.

He bent to his self-appointed task.

* * *

End Part Two

* * *


	3. Completion

* * *

_Part Three_

* * *

Skywarp had two modes: 'sneaky' and 'caught.' Anyone with half a wit could tell which mode he was in. One simply calculated Skywarp's proximity to a superior officer divided by the thickness of patently fake innocence layered on his face, multiplied by the number of times Starscream had been heard yelling at him that week. Then assume that, unless the number had come out to zero because Megatron was currently sitting on him, he'd fooled everyone and pulled something already. Unless collared by a wingmate or Megatron, Skywarp automatically schemed. He teleported, attacked from behind, set up ambushes, lied, sabotaged, and committed random acts of trickery on his own faction when not kept adequately occupied by an official enemy.

Except for a general inability to rein in his streak of mischief, Skywarp made a fantastic Decepticon. His loyalty to Megatron stayed secure and sincere despite being in the same wing as two jets known for their flamboyant treachery and quiet reservations. He fought with the same fierce joy present in his pranks. He followed orders, even if sometimes he required prodding. He acted as a dogmatic anchor when Thundercracker deviated slightly from the Decepticon cause. He placed second in the Decepticon Air Fleet, making him an active rival for Starscream's rank; envy, distrust, and jealously seethed between them, yet their hunger for power united their wing into a force to be reckoned with among the Elite of the Decepticons.

If Skywarp didn't drive almost everyone crazy—and managed to hide his idiocy better—he might have earned Starscream's job. As it was, he'd made it into the Elite forces by meshing his talents at mayhem into the outstanding performance in his wing. Yet he blamed his secondary position on Starscream and blatantly showed his resentment through more trickery, which continually made Megatron question why he was tolerated in the flyer ranks. This, in turn, made him hate Starscream more for having to defend him when the silver tyrant raised such questions.

It was just how his mind worked. Because Skywarp only had two modes.

See Skywarp. See Skywarp sneak. Sneak, Skywarp, sneak.

Everyone knew it. That's what made today a challenge for him. That's why he smiled as he walked the corridors, cheerfully heading for the other side of the base and another grand ploy. He made no secret of his passage. The best pranks were the ones pulled right under everyone else's optics, and he and Thundercracker had concocted a doozy last night. Here he was, tra-la-la, going to see Starscream. Reason? No reason in particular. Skywarp was only a concerned wingmate, nevermind the fact that he never visited his wingleader in the medical bay unless he wanted something. Him, gathering information from an inside source before placing his bet? Surely not!

See Skywarp. See Skywarp be a big, fat distraction while Thundercracker sneaked around behind everyone's turned backs. Sneak, Thundercracker, sneak.

He added an extra bounce to his step and nodded jovially to Ramjet as he passed by. The conehead jet gaped after him, but Skywarp was busy being entertained by his role in his wingmate's plot. Never let it be said that Skywarp didn't believe in karma. He figured that the universe had given him Thundercracker as cosmic repayment for sticking him in a flight wing under Starscream. That being said, it could be argued that the universe had bestowed Skywarp upon Starscream as some kind of revenge for them both being unashamedly evil, evil Decepticons. Of course, by that logic poor Thundercracker must have been Straxus in a past life. What kind of horrid action had he done to deserve having Skywarp and Starscream inflicted on him?

One would think their wing would fall apart from their internal, resentment-fueled pressure-cooker, but not so. They somehow diffused their open hate. Skywarp held Thundercracker responsible. The blue jet was the only one Skywarp and Starscream could share some kind of perverse affection for, if only because he was useful to both of them and didn't have their power-hungry natures. They'd worked together for thousands of years, and regardless of sporadic efforts to humiliate and physically injure each other, their caustic working relationship had lasted. Skywarp could harass the other Decepticons with the confidence of a jet backed by the strength of a secure triad, not a trifling support when at least a dozen of the harassed numbered among gestalts or Cassetticons. Starscream could betray Megatron and still wake up in the medical bay, hauled there by his exasperated wingmates after the beating. Thundercracker, loss of faith in the Decepticon cause and all, stayed alive and sheltered from accusation of Autobot collaboration by Starscream and Skywarp's--increasingly frustrated--interference.

Yeah, Thundercracker sure was somebody. He was still the one who checked in the medical bay to make sure his wing pulled through for no discernable reason. Starscream remained convinced the blue jet wanted to seize and sell off his possessions for a profit at the moment of death. Skywarp figured him for actually being concerned about them. Under interrogation, he might admit that he felt a similar concern when Thundercracker crashed.

Under no situation would he admit such a thing about Starscream. He was visiting the medical bay today to mislead the other Decepticons. This was strictly business. Well…speaking of business…

One did not belong to the Air Commander's wing without developing a healthy paranoia about keeping that position. Despite his resentment, Skywarp knew that if Starscream decided to switch wingsmates, he'd be left unprotected. Abandoned. That would make luring a replacement into the wing rather difficult. His combat record may be exemplary, but being discarded by the Air Commander of the Decepticon forces was NOT a recommendation he wanted haunting him. He might not remain in the Elite. He might not remain alive; he had stared down Megatron's fusion cannon often enough to know that only his position at Starscream's side saved his aft some days. He might not even keep Thundercracker, and didn't that make a funny feeling twist underneath his spark?

The idea of someone else--some other jet, maybe even the stupid conehead he'd left staring in his wake--taking HIS place with HIS wing ignited jealousy in Skywarp he couldn't express. He envied Starscream. He wanted his rank. He didn't trust the red jet any further than he could throw Omega Supreme. But the very thought of someone else in his place beside Starscream made his mind burn with a possessiveness that rebelled against all logic. The possessiveness he felt toward Thundercracker could be explained, however grudgingly, in his own mind. He dodged explanations when it came to Starscream. The Air Commander was HIS.

So he sauntered down to the medical bay to pay his respects to his downed wingleader…and make sure no one had been trying to persuade him to join another wing. Easiest time to do it would be when he was recuperating. Business, right?

Up ahead, the Combaticons and Stunticons ceased glaring at each other from opposite sides of the hallway to let him pass, their competitive tale-telling about the battle yesterday interrupted as the black-and-purple jet strolled through their midst without a care in the world. He continued on his way, but they stared after him thoughtfully.

"Swindle."

"Yeah?"

"I want to know what way he bets."

The Combaticon in charge of the dead-Autobot betting pool opened his mouth to say something about the size of the kickback he expected in return, but at that moment Motormaster chose to crack his knuckle joints--at the same time Onslaught did. The two gestalt leaders exchanged surprised looks before turning their mutual intimidation on the smaller robot. He wilted under the pressure. A strong business persona meant little when Swindle was outnumbered and outgunned. And, anyway, it wasn't strictly illegal under the terms of the wagering so long as no one changed their current bets. They could add more credits and energon in new stakes if they wished, depending on what Skywarp learned from Starscream.

If the Constructicons hadn't kicked everyone out of the medical bay after repairs yesterday, other Decepticons would have interrogated the Air Commander themselves by now. As it was, standard rules applied; only wingmates, gestalt-mates, or Decepticons of higher rank were permitted in while an officer was essentially helpless under the Constructicons' hands; it helped prevent assassination and manipulation. Since that only allowed Skywarp, Thundercracker, or Megatron into the medical bay, the betting had remained enthusiastically against the Autobot Tracks surviving based upon what the nearest Decepticon witnesses reported. Now if Skywarp came back and, with a typically lousy attempt at innocence, placed a bet against Tracks as well, the numbers would rise even higher…

Some of the bettors risking their credits on Track's survival weren't 'in the know' for Skywarp's information, and the witnesses here wouldn't spread the word. If Swindle played this right, the Autobot's death would make him a killing. One way or another.

Greed lit his optics, and he nodded agreement to Onslaught and Motormaster's demand.

The two gestalt teams made themselves scarce, an activity a non-Decepticon might find difficult considering the underwater base corridor's lack of décor. Being Decepticons and therefore experienced in disappearing in plain sight from one particular enraged silver tyrant, they managed admirably. The Combaticons deserted Swindle, leaving him isolated in the hall. Breakdown slapped a hand over Wildrider's mouth while Motormaster bodily picked him up and moved out of sight. The smaller Stunticon didn't struggle since he was well-aware of his problems regarding immobility and silence.

Even neurotic Decepticons cooperated when there was energon, credits, and death on the line. Swindle swelled with pride at their greed. It was touching, really.

…if one was neurotic.

Now, they waited. Swindle loitered conspicuously. Skywarp wasn't that bright. He'd return by the same route to place his bet with the Combaticon and not think terribly hard about where the others had gone.

Or so they'd thought. Breakdown and Dead End stiffened at the same time, causing Motormaster to curse and Wildrider to giggle psychotically when the cream-colored Lamborghini let go of his mouth.

Dead End gave a one-word explanation, "Dirge," and walked off down the hall.

Breakdown offered more, since Motormaster seemed about to punch his head for letting Wildrider give away their location. "Skywarp just turned up on the bridge and nearly dragged Thundercracker off his duty station. He's trying to pass it off as nothing," which meant that he'd failed utterly, being Skywarp and his sole two modes, "but the other jets are following him."

Because Skywarp trying to be innocent was Skywarp up to his air vents in something everyone would want to know about. And Dirge had informed Dead End and Breakdown because the two Stunticons practically owned his wings off-duty these days. Fear, paranoia, and apathy mixed like fire and gasoline: they shouldn't go together because they caused explosive burn-out—and a lot of fun for two sports cars with a determined interest in flyers. The other Stunticons expressed their wing-fascination in more conventional ways that didn't get them updates on interesting things happening on the bridge shift. It led Motormaster to think that his gestalt team was filled with insane glitches, but they did have their good points. He dropped Wildrider and strode after Dead End. The others swarmed after.

Wildrider, being Wildrider, raced ahead like the hyperactive racecar he was. He transformed to his car mode and roared away in pursuit of Dead End, who cornered around the base's hallways with unnatural grace that human greasemonkeys had wet dreams about. The other Stunticons transformed in pursuit, since racing—even inside the base where they were not supposed to—was second nature to them. This meant that they gave up any attempt at stealth and stormed the hall leading to the medical bay like a pack of rabid speed demons.

Motormaster, being the least agile indoors, pulled up and transformed last, eyeing the two jets already standing at the doors askance; neither Dirge nor Thrust reacted in the slightest to the arrival of a group of Decepticon cars that, most of the time, didn't bother to stop when racing in the halls no matter who got run over in the process. Decepticons blinded to their own peril? That struck him as more than a little strange. Stranger was the way Breakdown and Dead End had draped themselves on Dirge and stared as intently as he into the room. His gestalt-mates generally did not share any interests beyond death and fear with their pet-jet. Strangest yet was the throaty, needy sound Wildrider made as he ducked under Thrust's wing to take in the view. That sound…

He associated that sound with battle, with the sight of an Aerialbot smoking from Stunticon-inflicted damage, with pretty wings ground-bound because they'd pounded on some flyer until their sick fascination with flight was satisfied. Breakdown's fingers marred Dirge's wing as they flexed on the metal, and the morbid jet hissed, moving into the scratches. Dead End pulled him back into place against his side. None of them seemed aware of what they were doing. Drag Strip, who WAS aware, ignored them for once in favor of looking over Thrust's wing and echoing Wildrider's engine-purr. The sound, conducted via the hand Drag Strip had absently placed on Thrust's wing, made the jet openly shudder. But the conehead didn't knock the hand away. Motormaster blinked and questioned his optical clarity because it LOOKED as though he actually leaned into the touch. Thrust. Voluntarily letting anyone, much less a Stunticon, touch him? Touch his WINGS?

Maybe the Constructicons had finally made good on a threat and killed Starsceam. Messily. That might explain the crowd's rapt faces and unusual reactions.

One could hope, anyway.

The Stunticon leader shouldered his way through the bunch until he could see for himself--and stopped. He shook his head. The vision didn't disappear, and he sank to one knee when someone behind him pressed him down, trying to see around his bulk. That someone's grip tightened when his engine thrummed heat and strong vibration of its own, presumably from hand to arm to attached parts that surely must be feeling what he felt at this moment because an answering hum of interest responded.

Oh. Yes. One could hope. Hope, and want, and outright lust for.

He vaguely registered the arrival of the Combaticons--they would very soon regret not joining the race for the best spots to ogle--and a few other Decepticons alerted by Skywarp's inability to act casual to an unusual situation in the medical bay. They clustered around the doorway, filling it from every angle with curious optics. Others joined Motormaster on the floor in crouches and on their knees while late arrivals stood as tall as they could to see over heads and shoulders in their line of sight. Scrapper's searing glare kept anyone from attempting to enter the room. Or rather, the large, experimental weapon o' doom pointed at the door stated clearly that the glare wasn't the only thing directed at trespassers. One would enter at risk of life and limb.

It would have almost been worth a try if Skywarp wasn't standing conspicuously near. The expression on his face nearly qualified as a high-powered weapon in its own right. If the Constructicon didn't get intruders, his expression said, HE would.

More surprising, at least to those who bothered paying attention to anything but the spectacle in front of them, was Thundercracker's smoldering look of protective possession. Where Skywarp exuded more malice than jealousy, the blue jet could have almost put up a sign up that yelled 'MINE!' and been more subtle. Who could blame him? It would take a gun to the head to get through to some of the Decepticons gaping through the door.

He would have honestly felt better with the door locked shut, but the same compulsion that had sent Skywarp up to the bridge to fetch him made him stand his ground and not slam the door closed in their collective faces. The urge to show off was too strong to deny. He just had to make it clear that while they could look, they couldn't touch. Thundercracker turned his head and met Skywarp's optics. No, that was a privilege for them alone, and gloating pleasure lit their optics blazing red. As one, they shifted to look. Smug gratification ran through their circuits at the sight.

Pride of the War Academy, prize of Cybertron's skies, prince of the Decepticon forces. Shrill, cowardly nuisance he might be, but no one denied Starscream his accomplishments. And while they might mock his claim to be a better leader than Megatron, no one-- at this moment, not even an Autobot or his worst enemy--could argue that he was truly one of the most handsome Decepticons.

Laying in state on a repair table, he surpassed 'handsome' and approached 'starkly beautiful.'

Off to one side, Scavenger spoke softly with Mixmaster and watched the impact of his work ripple through the Decepticon Elite like a shockwave. An appropriate sense of satisfaction filled him. The other Constructicons hadn't understood what he'd seen in the Air Commander until he'd begun adjusting the lights overhead. It hadn't been obvious to anyone but him. They'd already finished with the jet and hadn't thought there had been anything left to add.

Mixmaster's professional abilities stood out in the alloy grade he created; the armor he'd produced melted and cooled to a finish on joints that ground smooth without surrendering strength at the edges. Bonecrusher had turned the casts out without a dent, and between he and Long Haul, they had transported and held the entirety of Starscream's outer shell into place while the others finished the wiring underneath and began welding. Scrapper and Hook had rebuilt Starscream with their customary care, laserbeam welds securing newly cast armor plating into place with minimal cold cracking. The upgraded radar array would have attached to the old mounts, but since their design differed from the old array, Scrapper had adjusted them to sit back further to be more aerodynamic and aesthetically appealing. Even the paintjob didn't show a single wobbled line or discoloration where paint or painter failed.

Starscream had been perfect when the Constructicons finished with him, as finely repaired as any mechanism they ever turned out of the medical bay. Scavenger, however, had seen something more to be done to salvage a rough gem from a scrap bin and turn it into a glistening jewel. He'd polished, patient and thorough. He didn't know what Mixmaster had done to the car wax Starscream had accidentally stolen from Tracks, but this was a substance worthy of use in this project. He'd waxed in circles, circles overlapping circles, circles swirling in and out and around until not a single stroke could be picked out as separate on any surface. Every joint received its due share, ever corner an individual stroke of the cloth. Then he'd switched to a softer, less abrasive cloth and buffed the wax off. Only the jet's hands had been left alone; uninjured in the fight, they hadn't been touched during repairs and remained coated in Tracks' mechfluid. It pleased Scavenger to see the contrast. He'd polished endlessly, using particular care around the spatters on Starscream's arms.

When the excavator finally stood back and adjusted the lights for best advantage, the other five Constructicons had stood around the table and stared at what he'd done. And even Long Haul, capable of complaining about anything, was left speechless. Bonecrusher, wordless and impressed, had helped him fine-tune the lighting. Mixmaster had taken the remaining wax off to his corner to replicate the formula. Hook and Scrapper had quietly argued and finally settled on tilting the head of the table up slightly, not enough to disorient the Air Commander once he woke from systems' reboot but enough to make Skywarp gasp at the display when he'd popped through the door to 'check on his wingleader.'

Scavenger watched the reactions to his work and sighed quiet satisfaction. From all around him flooded approval.

Usually, Starscream's personality offset his physical beauty. The Constructions held a kind of subdued appreciation for him, as did the rest of the Decepticons, but admiration blunted through time and exposure. In the case of the Stunticons, who hadn't put up with his attitude for thousands of years, they'd never had more than a passing thought about pretty wings or the way he flew. It hardly stood out during a normal day here on Earth. The Air Commander never stood still or gave anyone an extra second to notice how he moved. He took it for granted, numbed as they by time.

Not so today. Lying motionless on the table, they could stare shamelessly at him. They drank him in as greedily as starved mechanical fish thrown in a pool of energon, immersing themselves in him. He fed in through their optics and the chemical smell of wax, through the slow sound of his systems rising toward consciousness and the remembered electric-taste of battle surging in their circuits. Denied touch, their sensors grabbed the stimulus from brief contact among the Decepticons gathered around the door. Engines growled and circuits crackled excess energy; Decepticons who normally couldn't stand each other pressed closer than necessary. And they hadn't even known that they'd been deprived…

How long since they had seen anyone free of the ever-present dirt of this mudball planet? The dust persistently stuck to their bodies in a coating that disrupted sight and touch. Paint became less vibrant, the colors warped by miniscule shifts in the light caused by particles of soil on their armor. What should have been smooth became unappealingly textured by grit. Worse, the filth clung by static and moisture, giving the Cybertronian victims of Earth a disturbing, uneven, patchwork appearance. It disgusted them when they thought of it, but most of the time it had become normal. Tiny imperfections under their paint, small cracks in their armor, and the bumps and scratches of dirt and grease on previously sterile surfaces surrounded them day by day until they could hardly remember what anything else looked like.

They remembered now. Their optics couldn't leave the living memory lying before them. Luster they hadn't seen since Cybertron lay under the medical bay's lights. Tiny flecks of metallic color, usually left dull and flat, aligned from their random dispersion in the paint and drew optics as their alignment practically glowed with an uncommon patina. Radiance called one to follow the sleek bars of highlights from head to foot, from luminous wingtip to wingtip. Metal gleamed, angles so sharply lined in the light from the ceiling that it seemed the reflections could cut. Not a speck of dust interrupted their optics, and the utterly clean lines of Starscream's form robbed their intakes of cooling air--or so it felt, because many of the Decepticons crowding the door were suffering from a temperature increase.

His colors! Thundercracker was blue, but such a difference between the shades! Starscream's body seemed exquisitely detailed in cerulean blue, the splashes of light a precise shade of pale azure and the deepest shadows a sapphire-cobalt that reminded flyers of that indescribable color of this planet's sky when the sun set and relinquished the sky to night. The majority of his body could have easily been seen as white before Scavenger had revealed otherwise. White? No! Starscream glittered a hard-edged silver so subtle and yet so smoothly tinted it was unmistakable as anything else. The shadows were dark pewter without being dull gray. Highlights didn't fade or soften the metallic color; instead, they were nearly blinding in their intensity. The glass of his cockpit…how could it be clear and liquid gold at the same time, more vivid than the sun? It sparkled in his chest like a visible cry and begged to be caressed. Hands twitched at the temptation, wishing to feel the difference in texture between glass and metal, bring it down from fantasy into reality by spanning the curves of silicon and feeling the color. Brighter yet and so distinct it made a couple of the Stunticons moan out loud was the broad stripe of unadorned white along the inside edge of Starscream's wings--as if they needed any further emphasis!

And then there was the red.

There were words to describe the red Starscream was known for and often described as. The problem most of the staring Decepticons had was finding the proper way to fit those words to the essence of the Air Commander. Crimson? Too dark, because every highlight concentrated on his air intakes until it seemed his head was framed in a hypnotic inferno, or perhaps that was the reflection of their fixed optics upon the color already there. Scarlet held onto the periphery of their search, the royal purples mixed into the color almost majestic enough, but no. Not quite it, not quite right. Flame-red was too orange, not violent enough for the savagery inherent even in an immobile body. He wasn't a cheerful, fire-truck red because that definition was laughable when held next to the fierce spark held behind the paint. Skywarp's smile stretched wide as he savored the comparison of Starscream's red to fresh-spilt human blood, not because the colors exactly matched but because the murderous feeling carried through. If the Constructicons could make hatred fluid and paint it on Starscream's body, that color would be his red. The chaos of civil war and furious anger flared like hell-bent rubies in the highlights of his wings and sparked deep and seething in the angles of his torso. The red seemed almost ALIVE.

If it had been alive, the watchers had no doubt it would kill them all. And they would embrace the death. The color and the one who wore it ripped straight into their convictions, into every perception of beauty, and they swallowed his lethal visual lure. They were Decepticons, and they loved him for what they saw glaring back at them from purple, pointed insignia on each wing.

To the Constructions, the jet represented a pinnacle of achievement. His design was ideal. The Decepticon Elite included two groups of Seekers because their design ruled the sky as one of Cybertron's most dangerous weapons of war. Materials balanced light metals for speed against heavy redundancy in support and armor for close combat. The Seeker format had a limited range of exostructural variations available, but of them all, the build-team preferred the variation Thundercracker, Skywarp, and Starscream sported. It wasn't as simple as the conehead-variation, which tended toward ease of transformation instead of attractiveness, but it also avoided the pitfalls of the pyramid-variation, which was technically gorgeous but overly complicated. In the Constructicons' opinions, Starscream had benefited from changing his alternate mode to a native Earth jet instead of keeping the Seeker pyramid transformation. The clash between functional and aesthetic in fighter layouts made designers like Scrapper tic, but the F-15 alternate mode compromised nicely between warfare and appearances.

Even Decepticons outside Devastator could see the appeal of Starscream's design. His alternate mode hardly resembled an Earth-made F-15, although humans apparently couldn't tell the differences for as many times as the Seekers had infiltrated their militaries. Maybe humans couldn't see the differences outside of color between the blue, black, and red jets, but no Cybertronian could make that mistake. They were as different as opposite sides of the color wheel, and Starscream stood out from his wingmates like a renegade tint: part of the spectrum, but pure and distilled to something beyond them. The differences were almost microscopic even to their optics, but the tiniest measurement carried a wealth of beauty inside it.

Like his wings. Starscream's wings were lovely. Absolutely stunning in width and length, with thinner flaps than Skywarp's and wider breadth than Thundercracker's, they indicated a level of flight capability that made other flyers envious. The longer shape practically shrieked his confidence in flutter-control and agility. The shape of his air-brake had an inexplicable charm to it. It made one want to trace the edge with a finger or something else, just to see his reaction. The dogtooth on his tailplane held similar appeal; Skywarp's was a fraction shorter, and Thundercracker's didn't quite notch as deep. In his alternate mode, he stood a hair shorter than his wingmates because the sacrifice of height off his landing gear had trimmed the gear wells down to make him lighter and correspondingly quicker. In robot form, he stood taller than his wingmates because of the extra length on his heels; his afterburner nozzles were longer than any of the other jets' and explained in part why he was the fastest Decepticon in the air. This speed could also been seen in his slender fuselage. While Thundercracker could carry more fuel and Skywarp actually had slimmer tanks, the shape of Starscream's fuselage found the middle ground between distance and speed.

His weapons were powerful and completely different than his wingmates'. It made the shape of their mounted weaponry almost incomparable to Cybertronian observers, as the differences were so obvious. The contours of their cockpits and chest-launched weaponry dramatically altered from jet to jet, and, while the Air Commander's cluster bombs were deadly, some would concede that Skywarp's nosecone looked more centered or Thundercracker's shoulders were broader. However, Starscream's null rays were notorious. Power hovered over them in an almost visible haze of war and glory, and Decepticons treasured power. They didn't need to be beautiful guns to attract admirers, but it certainly helped.

His electronic systems spoke of control, power, and speed as well, relying less on automatic systems and more on real-time thought. Other jets thought out how they flew, but most of the routine things were done by subprocessor programs. Starscream actually did most of the details instead of pushing them aside as automatic functions. It made him quicker on the uptake in flight and battle. It implied how fast he thought, and to what depth he monitored himself and his surroundings. The fact that the newest upgrade in radar arrays was currently integrating with his flight systems and weapons grid just added to the aura of being a top-of-the-line model, supremely ready for combat. Lesser designs didn't stand a chance against him.

All the lines and shapes that clearly signaled a warrior to Cybertronian eyes, contained in a shell of texture and color that demanded appreciation. Fast and furious, but as striking as a bolt of lightening…and as brutal. Everything about him, every single component, was made for warfare. Being enticed by someone whose fundamental nature was that of a weapon of mass destruction did strange things to the mind. One couldn't help but realize that Starscream advertised his ability to fight by standing out as spectacularly as he did. He drew attention as iron filings glued themselves to a magnet, seduced and twisted his admirers, and used them for his own ends without a shred of regret.

Nothing else could showcase Starscream quite like his face. While the rest of his body was a study in shining paint and polish, his face was a dark, matte gray. His armor was composed of sleek lines, all sharply defined and highlighted, but his face had a different texture. The sharp lines were contrasted by delicate curves, and the highlights and shadows blended in a silken appearance that hinted at aspects of personality he concealed. His body cried out for adoration, but his face…his face whispered of a vulnerable side. Like they were hard of hearing, those who saw the muted appeal had to cuddle closer and reach out to him. Satin-soft looks suckered them into his cruel grip, and they reveled in their servitude. He smiled, and it rewarded them. He frowned, and their sparks sank. He pouted, and they'd turn against each other to please him.

His optics revealed his plans, windows to a poisoned spark that held them captive. They were dimmed at this moment but just waited to light with glee, fear, anger, or hate. He FELT so passionately they couldn't help but feel, too. Even the screechy voice that would come from his mouth thrilled them, an imperfect grain of salt in the sugar bowl that sweetened him despite all predictions.

Displayed to all the Decepticons that could fit in the door to the medical bay, he overloaded their minds and sent shivers down their limbs. Yes, they hadn't stopped to SEE this clean-polished perfection of line and form in so long, and yes, Starscream was undeniably stunning as a design, but over all the artistic--and erotic--appreciation soared a hunger that trapped them. It was one thing to respect and admire a warrior in abstract, knowing his potential, but there it was splashed on his hands! A killer's hands, spelled out in dried mechfluid. Not one of the Decepticons in the doorway, from Onslaught to Frenzy, could look away from that proof without seeing overlaid on Starscream's body the memory of those hands plunged into an Autubot's chest. Over and over again they heard the crunch of metal, Tracks' agonized scream, and the triumph washing Starscream's battered face. The repetition added gruesome details as their imaginations wished, layering it with the smell of a battlefield, the desperation in the Autobot's optics, and the grieving of Tracks poor, pitiable friends. Above it all shrieked the shrill laughter of the Air Commander of the Decepticon Air Fleet.

Vicious. Sadistic. Completely without mercy.

Primus, they wanted him.

Motormaster and Vortex only noticed where their hands were when Swindle nudged between them, gaze intent on the offline Air Commander. "Hey, what do you think you're--"

"Back off, you--"

"Do you want pictures or not?" Reflector's components snapped in unison from closer to the floor, and a mass blink went through the crowd. Reluctant optics refused to part from Starscream for a moment, but then dazed minds registered what had been said.

Motormaster and Vortex split apart like the biblical Moses had walked between them. "DO I?" they chorused, and the hallway erupted into chatter as the other Decepticons started thinking again.

"How much?"

"Can you get a different angle?"

"Who's the tallest? Oh."

"Being tall doesn't mean Scrapper will let me through the door."

"You could lean in. We'll hold onto your wings."

"NO. Skywarp looks trigger-happy."

"C'mon, Astrotrain…"

"Skywarp, buddy, pal, let the camera a little closer. Whaddya say?"

Skywarp and Thundercracker exchanged a considering look. "No," Skywarp said firmly, and Thundercracker shrugged, just a little disappointed.

"Five percent off the top," Swindle offered, and a low whistle came from further back in the group. Swindle didn't offer percentage before he'd taken his share. He said it was bad policy.

Skywarp hesitated. Thundercracker grinned. "Fifteen."

The Combaticon looked mortally offended. "Seven."

"Seventeen." This from Skywarp, who got a confused glare from Swindle.

"Eight," he countered.

"Eighteen," the two jets said together, looking entirely too smug for the Combaticon's business sense.

"Eight," he repeated stubbornly, refusing to go higher. He saw how these negotiations were going. Well, that's how it was with supply and demand. The demand was stuck out in the hall, and the supply…

The supply was walking toward the hall, watched by an alarmed audience. "Time to close the door, don't you think?" Thundercracker asked solemnly over his wing. Skywarp nodded, stealing Thundercracker's grin to paste on his own face. He was definitely in 'sneak' mode. And the glitch-ridden slagheap could get away with pulling his scam over on Swindle, too, since it was his wingleader on the bargaining table.

"Ten percent," the jeep ground out. It sounded like it had cost him something vital. "That's MORE than generous."

"I dunno, Thundercracker…think he's holding out on us?"

The Constructicons just leaned on Scrapper's giant doomsday weapon in the background and looked amused at the fuss. Anyone looking at them might have noticed how all of them found some way to touch Scavenger, who looked embarrassed but comfortable with the contact. Some of the crowd did notice when Starscream's optics flickered erratically. They all took notice when the Air Commander made a drowsy, vague sound before subsiding back offline. Bonecrusher strolled forward and checked a status output on a nearby computer console. "Integration complete. Huh. Took him longer than I thought. He'll be up t' speed soon."

"You're running out of tiiiime," Skywarp sing-songed teasingly. Thundercracker tapped on the inside lock, managing to look bored.

Swindle had to be restrained by Reflector's components from beating his head against the doorframe. The camera needed the entrepreneur to be conscious to close the deal. "Fifteen percent, you cross-wired invention of the Pit, and that's my final offer!"

"Me? Cross-wired?" The purple-and-black jet did the innocent act he was so bad at. His smile skipped straight from 'cavity-inducing sweetness' down to a creepy 'hypoglycemic' level only an evil Decepticon getting his way could achieve. Somewhere, a diabetic died. "We accept. Scrapper?"

The Constructicon gestalt leader looked Swindle up and down. The Combaticon looked thoroughly miserable, already anticipating the blow. "Five percent. Nonnegotiable."

"After set expenses?"

Scrapper cut the jeep's hope off at the knees. "Off the top."

"Ouch," someone said from the back. It sounded like Ramjet. It sounded like he was laughing. It figured that he'd like watching the Decepticon trader get the short end of a deal, considering how ruthless Swindle could be when it came to cutting deals with him. Smiles on the other Decepticons' faces indicated he wasn't the only one enjoying the show.

Swindle winced. Ouch, indeed. "Agreed." He perked up a little as he recalculated profit. "How close?"

The two jets turned to look at the Constructicons. The Constructicons shared a look amongst themselves. They looked back to Skywarp and Thundercracker, who looked to Swindle and Reflector. They all looked at Starscream as he shifted and mumbled once more, optics lighting a second longer before dimming again. Movement reflected light off that faultless body like a scattering of divinity across the room. If a statue of Aphrodite had slinked off her pedestal and opened her legs to a worshiping man, it might have inspired the combination of awe and lust that stirred the Decepticons right then.

Scrapper shrugged, willing to bend the rules, and Thundercracker stood aside, sweeping an arm into the room. "Just don't touch him."

That left quite a bit of room for interpretation, now didn't it? Eager expressions crept over many faces peering in the door, and Swindle rubbed his hands together. Reflector's components actually seemed happy as they combined into their camera form. Swindle advanced on a helpless Starscream as his wingmates stood by and the Constructicons observed. The cluster of Decepticons broke into raucous suggestions of what exactly they wanted pictures of, some of the suggestions quite graphic as their ideas bounced off each other and grew wilder. All the scene lacked was Soundwave giggling manically in the corner to make base history as the weirdest moment ever.

Fortunately for Decepticon history--not to mention dignity--a deafening bellow suddenly shook tools from shelves all along the wall paralleling the hallway. "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!"

The Stunticons didn't even bother to wait for the fusion cannon blasts. They transformed and took off in the opposite direction of Megatron's infuriated voice, knocking over and running over everyone in their paths. That's not to say that Megatron didn't TRY to shoot them, but one of the benefits of having a car alternate mode was the fact that being on four wheels naturally put them below the level of anyone left standing. Even Motormaster managed to vanish around the first corner available before Astrotrain cowered out of the way. That left Dirge and Ramjet nursing smoking holes in their legs, Vortex missing three rotors, and Frenzy with tire tracks on his face. He played dead, hoping to escape the carnage wrought by an angry tyrant who had finally tracked down his missing troops.

Onslaught didn't have that option since the shot he'd taken was extremely painful but nonlethal. Of course, Megatron didn't give him the chance to explain his gestalt--or grovel, which probably would have done more good at this point in time during their forgotten duty shift--before decking him and grabbing him by the back of the head to drag along behind him. The other Combaticons followed like whipped puppies, knowing it would be worse for them if they didn't.

"You," Megatron snarled, pointing his right hand and accompanying fusion cannon at Astrotrain, "take that excuse for a soldier to Soundwave immediately," the dreaded arm-cannon swung to point at Frenzy, who couldn't help but cringe, "and you will BOTH report to me afterward." A thin smirk like a knife wound crossed the silver Decepticon's lips at the train-shuttle's wide optics. "For…punishment detail."

That was the kind of phrase that gave Decepticons nightmares. It also explained why Starscream was the only one of them who regularly dodged their assigned duties. Astrotrain gulped back fear and nodded quickly, picking Frenzy up by the closest leg and bobbing a bow in their commander's direction as he retreated down the corridor. The three coneheads watched him go and were silently grateful that they'd joined the crowd at the END of their shift.

Megatron snapped a glare at the trailing Combaticons, doing a quick count and coming up one short. "SWINDLE!"

Brawl raised his head and dared to point past him. "He went that way…"

"Silence!" With a brutal clang of his fist meeting the Combaticon's head, Megatron turned away and decided to deal out a special punishment to the Stunticons and Swindle later. The anticipation of pain would send Breakdown into a paranoid fit anyway, and having one of their gestalt-mates be absolutely terrified would drive the rest out of hiding just to get it over with. He'd have to come up with something that imprinted obedience in their very circuitry. It seemed that a mass desertion of duty required more than dented armor and a few well-place fusion burns. Perhaps melting Swindle's back and fusing him to a wall would remind them of loyalty and discipline.

It abruptly occurred to him that he'd been so busy beating on his wayward troops that he didn't know WHY they'd never showed up for their shifts. "What on Cybertron were you useless pieces of junk do--"

He paused and took a cautious step back. From there, he could see straight into the medical bay. Six Constructions looked back at him, respectful but wary. On the repair table in front of them…

Megatron's optics flickered once. Twice. Slowly, they flickered a third time, blinking at his second-in-command. The last time he'd seen him, the jet had been a shredded burden in Construction arms. This…"Tell Starscream to report to me directly once he returns online," he said blandly.

"Wish I'd thought of that," Thrust muttered from behind him. He panicked when the silver tyrant pinned a glare on him that seemed fit to incinerate him on the spot. "Repairs!" he yelped, pulling his wingmates up by their arms. "In our, uh, quarters! Far from here!" Dirge and Ramjet didn't need their frantic third to hustle their steps, as they were quite well aware of what great targets they made stumbling along the hall. Megatron's optics could be felt on their backs even after they turned the corner.

What a wonderful topic to bring up with Starscream when next they spoke: why were the Elite Decepticons all idiots? Pondering that question enflamed his temper again, and Megatron threw Onslaught down the hall ahead of him. He jerked a nod to the Constructicons and stalked after the Combaticon leader, who groaned inaudibly as he attempted to crawl away.

Brawl rubbed the brand-new dent in his forehead and hissed, "You owe me!" at the six Constructicons before hurrying after their commander. This would not be fun.

When the sound of pounding steps and sounds of pain had receded far enough away, Mixmaster tipped back to look behind Bonecrusher. "You can come ou-out now."

Swindle poked his head out to have a look around, not trusting the crazy chemist. Skywarp had grabbed Thundercracker and teleported out the moment Megatron started roaring, but he'd been left on his own with Reflector. The camera had been no help. Luckily, Bonecrusher was bigger than he was and had been standing close enough to duck behind. When he was sure the coast was clear, Swindle sidled out and smiled nervously. "Thanks, guys! I'll just get the pictures and--"

"Seven percent," Hook interrupted him. 'Or else we call Megatron back,' his expression finished. The arrogant son of a toaster had him over a barrel and knew it. Worse, Swindle knew it, too. Nothing ground broken glass into his ego like having terms dictated to him.

"Deal," he spat, freezing his features into an impassive wall. This deal kept going downhill, but no use letting them get to him. Business as usual. "Can I get to work now, or will you insist on haggling through the film development?"

"By all means," Hook said graciously, shooing him toward Starscream. "Work."

"If that's what you call work," Scrapper said just loud enough to be heard. The other Constructicons snickered rudely.

The next time the Constructicons needed something, he'd jack up the price so high they'd have to build a space bridge to reach it. He held that thought close to his spark and kept his peace as he snapped pictures. Admittedly, some of the shots he got thawed his icy demeanor. Reflector sure seemed appreciative, directing him into better lighting with shutter-clicks and whirrs. He swore that the zoom function had been invented by Primus. There was a particular shot that he wasn't certain he wanted to share with any buyers, although he might have to allow a glimpse or two to his gestalt-mates for saving his aft from Megatron's wrath. Besides, envy drove up sales. Letting potential customers know what they were missing made them want more.

When he judged he'd taken enough pictures, he was almost in a good mood again. It would definitely be worth the trouble once the credits started rolling in, anyway. Money: soothing to the ego and his greedy, greedy spark.

Reflector separated into components again, and the trio headed for the door. They would develop the pictures and print them up. After that, it would be up to Swindle to sell them. He sauntered after his partner of the day and counted up prospective sales. Oh, but they would sell. This was one of those opportunities that dropped like a sack of energon into his lap. All the work he'd have to do would be in distribution. There would even be some Autobots wanting to buy despite the battle yesterday. Hey, he might even be able to sound out whether Tracks had survived. The betting pool was a tidy sum of money…

"Swindle."

Scrapper's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. Startled, Swindle whipped around, optics automatically seeking out threats. Scavenger and Mixmaster were looking at something in Mixmaster's hands while Bonecrusher and Long Haul guided the half-finished weapon o' doom back into place as Hook lifted it using his crane alternate mode. That left Scrapper alone to look at the Combaticon standing in the center their domain. The look on his face was hard to interpret. Swindle glanced toward the door and decided he couldn't run fast enough to make it.

"Yeah?"

"I think," Scrapper said, stepping forward to stand beside the repair table Swindle had been circling so avidly a minute ago, "that a complete list of who buys those pictures would be an appropriate price."

In no way did that have a good sound. Scrapper would be a fool to blackmail him further, and Scrapper wasn't a fool. He had the sudden, disquieting thought that HE was the fool. The words dragged out of his vocalizer, "'Appropriate price' for what?"

He unexpectedly found himself the focus of six sets of wickedly amused optics. Not good.

"For my silence."

Swindle swayed on his feet as a seventh pair of red optics lit and stared him down. "How…how long..?"

"Long enough," Starscream whispered, his voice harsh and soft at the same time. The lazy smile on his lips made him impossibly more glorious, a fallen god poised at the ready.

When the Air Commander bent one leg and sat up to cross his arms on top of it, it dizzied Swindle. The same spellbound feeling that had enraptured a hall full of Decepticons prickled around his spark and trembled in his wrists, an all but physical sensation born in bold colors and sharp wings. By Cybertron, when he flashed the light of his optics on him--!

The Combaticon drew back, nodding. "Yes, yes. Yes! I'll…I'll get that to you." Starscream cocked his head to the side, and Swindle swallowed a sound suspiciously like a whimper. The sheer sense of a predator watching his every move made him sympathize with Breakdown's paranoia; he would feel that gaze peeling him apart for days. Yet he yearned toward the predator, wanted to be the prey. He stumbled back without looking away, afraid to run and more afraid to stay. His back hit the wall beside the door, and then he was through and out of sight.

Swindle sagged against the wall outside the medical bay, unable to get his feet to move.

Given a few hours, at most a day, and the awestruck need revving his fuelpump would dim back down to its former levels. None of the Earth-bound Decepticons could stay in as perfect condition as Starscream currently was in. Reality would disrupt the dreamlike state they'd wandered into. Once the jet started walking around again, the grit would begin to stick. The microscopic scratches would mar his paint, and the prenatural shine demanding in-depth study of intense colors would reduce to a common paintjob. His personality would take care of the rest. Even on this world, Starscream could achieve beauty, but unless he kept his mouth shut he stayed merely handsome.

For now, silent in thought, the Air Commander bled charisma only the truly lovely possessed. The silken planes of his face settled into a pensive expression, and he seemed an elegant sculpture dedicated to the Decepticon empire. His optics stared at the dried mechfluid still covering his hands. No regret entered him at the sight; his thoughtful appearance sprang from other causes. The caked fluid only seemed to inconvenience him as he flexed his fingers unhurriedly, one at a time, watching flakes fall from the joints to the table. They fell slowly, appearing to float gently down.

His optics gradually focused past the flakes to see Scavenger standing in front of him, quietly waiting. A shallow tin of wax and a clean cloth were in the Constructicon's hands, and Starscream examined them with a mild look of puzzlement. Scavenger knelt next to the table and balanced the tin on his knee, then reached up and offered his free hand to the jet. Starscream's optics looked over it and straight into the excavator's optic band.

How much did he know? How much did he guess? Could he reconstruct the gestalt dynamics and individual quirks that had led to this instant? Time had suspended itself when Decepticon desire laid on display in the medical bay, destruction and conquest personified and unconscious. It wouldn't last, but the cause it sprang from and fed in turn would continue to burn out of control.

Scavenger had made that possible. He'd filled the hole, completed the finished project past all expectations. He worked with junk, but that was the fault of the material. So what if it wouldn't last? He'd done his best with what everyone else had abandoned.

For a short while--an hour, a day, perhaps an eternity--Starscream had been everything he insisted he was.

The corners of the jet's mouth turned up in a tolerant smile and one stained hand settled tenderly in his proffered one. And as he bent to his task, Scavenger thought that the wax had been worth saving from the trash after all.

A salvager couldn't ask for more than that.

* * *

**END **

* * *

_LD's Notes: It's the fic that ATE MY BRAIN. I didn't mean to bring any other characters in it. This started as character interaction between the Constructicons and Starscream. Thundercracker walked into it somehow and took over a few pages. Yeah, sure, it happens. Scavenger wanted a part—well, whatever, it wasn't that long. Then Skywarp dragged half the slagging Decepticon base into this. ARGH. Thank you to QueenZerg for putting up with them all and sorting the whole thing out. So here it is; tell me what you think of it at dementedangel (at) hotmail . com. By the way, the figurine from Tracks' dash is the deposed patron saint of driving, St. Christopher. I don't know why Tracks had one. Maybe he thought that since he already had the wing, he needed a prayer. _


End file.
